


Letters From Home

by rpfwriters



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mild Language, Romantic Fluff, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-27 00:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18187220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpfwriters/pseuds/rpfwriters
Summary: It’s 1942 and Chris Pratt, your fiancé, has just been drafted into the war to end all wars. The night before he leaves, the two of you get married. With a vow to write each other every day, Chris flies across the world to fight in a war that’s already claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children.





	1. Chris

* * *

 

The scent of your perfume continues to surround him even as he journeys onto the train. He pushes past the other riders, his soon-to-be brothers in arms, he correctly assumes. They’re young, so much younger than he, baby-faced and wide-eyed, still oblivious to certain things in the world. Most of them won’t make it, won’t survive the war. Not even twenty years old and they’ll end up in a casket, buried six feet under.

He finds his seat quickly. Row sixteen, seat one. It’s next to the window, and it’s the perfect spot. The train hasn’t even started to move and Chris is already digging out a slip of paper and pencil, a smirk on his lips.

_My darling,_

_I can see you, standing there, wiping your nose with that hanky from your ma. If I were out there, you’d tell me to stop looking, saying that I am making you self-conscious. You’d blush and hide your face, pretend that you weren’t crying, saying that it blemished your skin._

_Doll, you’re beautiful, and just because I ain’t gonna be there every day, I don’t want you to forget it. Never forget. Promise me._

_Forever yours,_

_Chris_

He tucks the paper back in his bag, watching his new wife through the dirt-smeared glass. She is adjusting the front of her butter yellow dress, the one that hugs her hips just right. It’s Chris’ favorite dress. Next, she smooths her hair back, her eyes flicking around, taking in her surroundings until her eyes meet his. They sparkle in the sunlight, small wrinkles forming around her eyes and lips as she smiles, waving shyly.

Chris waves back and pushes the window open, leaning out of it once there is enough room. She runs up to him and jumps up, grunting as he wraps his arms around her waist. He catches her chapped lips in his, kissing her fiercely until neither of them can breathe.

“I don’t want you to go,” she murmurs, her forehead against his, fingers curling in his hair.

He huffs in agreement. “I don’t have a choice, doll.”

It’s something he has said ever since they got news of the draft; a thin envelope, Chris’ name in bold black ink on the yellowing paper. She had cried the moment she knew, dropped to her knees and begged God not to take him from her.

The train whistle blows, scaring the pair of them. She clings tighter, crying once again into his neck.

“I have to go, Doll,” Chris sighs, the breath catching in his throat, fingers gripping her tight.

“No,” she cries, clinging to him, nails catching in the stitches of his olive green uniform.

“I love you,” he says between kisses. He reaches back to unhook her fingers, careful not to hurt her.

She stumbles back once her feet hit the platform, a hand over her heart. “I love you, too.”

Chris hangs out the window, along with other men that are saying goodbye to their friends, loved ones, and family members, waving and blowing kisses. Only when he can’t see the station any longer does he sit down, a shuddering sigh leaving him.


	2. You

You watch until the train is out of sight, your hands clasped in front of you, the tears sliding down your cheeks. Even after you can’t see the smoke from the engine, you stay where you are, wondering if by some miracle Chris, your husband, will reappear in front of you. It was a bitter pill to swallow, Chris leaving you. You refused to believe it was happening, right up until he’d boarded the train.

You can’t be sure how long you stand there, but the platform is quiet and it seems to be getting darker when you finally realize you should go. You hurry out to the street, noticing for the first time that the sun is setting. You drop your head and make your way through the New York crowds, heading home.

Home. It was just a small house that your parents had left you when they’d passed away three years ago, but you had made it your own, planting a garden in the back, painting it a pretty blue color, and filling it with plants and books. Now, it belonged to you and Chris, your first home together. Over the next few days, you were going to bring over the rest of his things from the apartment he had shared with two friends.

Once the door was locked behind you and the blinds were pulled, you put some water on to boil, hoping a cup of tea would soothe your nerves, then you make your way through the quiet house to your bedroom. You slip out of the yellow dress, Chris’s favorite, and hang it in the back of the closet, pressing it to your face for just a minute, the fabric still thick with your husband’s scent. A few stray tears slide down your cheeks, but you quickly brush them away. You couldn’t burst into tears every time you thought of Chris. You would do nothing but cry. You use the hanky your ma had given you to wipe your face, then you change into a pair of pajamas and pull your hair into a bun on the top of your head.

Back in the kitchen, you make some tea and sit at the table with the pretty stationary your aunt sent you for Christmas. You pull out one sheet of paper, pick up your pen, and close your eyes, picturing Chris’s whisker-kissed face as he waved goodbye.

_My dearest Chris -_

_I’m home, sitting at our kitchen table, thinking about you and those last few minutes we spent together. I already miss you desperately. I can’t believe I won’t wake up tomorrow to see you lying beside me. It seems so unfair, until I remember that there are a lot of women waking up without their husbands and that some of those women will never see their husbands again. I will be praying everyday that I never have to live that nightmare._

_I will be thinking of you always, worrying about you always, holding you in my heart, always. You are my rock. You are so very brave and I am so proud of you. Please, please be safe._

_I love you, always and forever -_

_Your doll_


	3. Chris

It’s raining. Again. Not the kind Chris is used to, the kind that comes and goes quickly, maybe settling over New York for the night or afternoon. No. This rain comes down like a waterfall, pounding into him, into the dirt. It’s the kind of rain that settles deep into his bones, into the very marrow of him, leaving him chilled in a way that no amount of blankets or fires or coffee will fix. 

Chris’ teeth are chattering and his fingers are shaking. He can’t see straight and the weight of the gun in his hands is unnerving. He can’t believe he’s actually here, fighting in a war that’s already killed the friends he’s made in the short amount of time he’s been deployed. It’s all so surreal, like a bad dream he can’t get out of, surrounded by mud and carnage. 

The only thing that helps him get through every day is Y/N, his wife, the love of his life. If he can survive long enough to get back home, then it will have all been worth it.

It’s the middle of the night when he finally gets a reprieve. He trudges back to the tent and changes into a set of somewhat dry clothes. Chris extracts a pen and a damp sheet of paper from the plastic wrap in his backpack, and prays his hand stops shaking long enough.

_ My dearest,  _

_ It’s still raining, if you can believe it. If we had this much rain back home I think we could canoe down the road. I don’t think I’ve seen the sun for a week. Never thought I’d see the day where I’d miss it almost as much as I miss you.  _

_ And oh, do I miss you.  _

_ I miss your laugh, the way your nose scrunches up when something is really funny. I miss the way you twirl your hair around your finger when you’re deep in thought and the way you try to hide it when you realize you’re doing it. I miss the way you kick my feet off of the couch and how you would pretend to be mad at me when all you wanted was to climb in next to me. I miss your Sunday roast and lemon pie. I miss the way you get lost in your books, imagining it was you on some great adventure.  _

_ I miss holding you and smelling your hair. I miss the way your fingers would brush against my skin, even though it tickled most times. I miss waking up with you by my side every morning, the sun peeking through the windows, the sheets tangled in your legs. I miss the nights in front of the fireplace.  _

_ But most of all, I miss hearing you say my name. I can’t wait for a lot of things, but I long to hear you say it again.  _

_ All my love, _

_ Chris _


End file.
